Okay, I’m embarrassed to admit I went down the rabbit hole recently on, of all things, Instagram. I feel a bit ashamed that this happened, but I’m coming clean.
I recently started following an artist on Instagram. The infamous algorithm popped her up for me, probably because I’ve been looking at a lot of art. Out of curiosity, but also for some inspiration as I embark on my artist’s life of watercoloring and drawing.
This woman emerged for me, and the algorithm really had it pegged.
She is currently in Tucson, having moved from the Pacific Northwest. She has gorgeous, colorful, bold art, which I find myself drawn to, and she bikes. She’s more of a hippie than I am, but has that hippie-ness I’ve secretly wished I had.
You know the type. The mother of the earth with her own chickens. The kind of chickens with names.
I told myself I found her inspiring, so I always felt a little thrill when I read her posts. What she was doing, how she was creating, her biking life on top of it all.
In short, she was what I wished I was.
But this crazy one-sided relationship came crashing down.
She posted about buying a retreat center. Of course, it was one of those perfect 1950s postmodern ranches I would eventually love to own, maybe just without the ranch part.
I followed her dream, thinking, Hmm, maybe I can steal that dream.
I’m not lying. I think I actually had those thoughts.
So I decided to Google her.
It turns out she had sold her brand to a very high-end distribution company, a large company that sells in gift shops.
In short, she’s RICH!!!
Heavens, this really put my dreaming Andrea into a state.
This woman’s whole persona was curated around living the easy, unmessy life. Enjoying creating every day. Exercising. Eating well. Dressed in her overalls with her dreadlocks messily escaping from her kerchief.
She was the poster child for a simple life is a good life. Follow me so you can see how it’s done.
She had left out one important fact.
She is loaded.
I felt duped. Conned. In short, I felt like a fool.
I also felt a little ashamed that in the heat of these dog days of summer, there hasn’t been much to do and I’ve turned to scrolling to take up the time more than I want to admit.
At first I was angry at my imaginary friend.
But then I had to laugh at myself.
Why was I so invested in this woman’s life in the first place? What was I hoping to find there?
Maybe it was the dreaming.
She was still chasing something, and I was sitting in the heat wondering what I was chasing now.
Summer is always a litmus test for my mental health.
I go into it thinking I’ll meditate every day, do breathwork, journal, write, make art and cook. I’ll enjoy the peace of having fewer people around and dig into this space and time of being fine with being alone.
I’ll enjoy my own company.
Sure, there’s not much to do. A lot of businesses close. The intense heat and lack of air conditioning keeps me pinned to my couch.
But I tell myself it’s retreat time.
That’s the image I always paint.
But by week six, I find myself floundering.
The heat takes over. I read a lot, swim, and start scrolling too much.
I’m bored. I’m hot. I’m miserable.
And when the misery takes over, my mind starts doing some really crazy things. It starts imagining other worlds, some good and some not so good.
And apparently, it gets deeply upset when an Instagram influencer turns out to be different than I imagined.
Which brings me to dreams.
Throughout my life, I’ve always had big dreams. Dreams that I would chase and try to achieve.
Most of them were fun things. Houses, vacations, boats, long bike rides, paying for college for my kids.
My dream was to have an Airbnb in Mexico a couple of years ago. It was supposed to be more hotel-style, but money issues shrunk it down to two casitas.
Which turned out for the best.
I love running it.
But the dream has been realized. It has been for a couple of years now.
And I’m finding there’s a part of me that wants to hold on to dreams, but I’m not sure what they should be anymore.
I still enjoy a great vacation. But I’m not sure it’s what I dream about.
It’s fun, but it doesn’t always fulfill me in the way it once did.
I have small, micro dreams. Fitness goals. Getting my 10,000 steps. Building up with weights. Practicing my writing. Making art. Adding plants to my shade garden.
I enjoy all of these things, but I don’t know if they feel like dreams yet.
I really loved chasing the big dreams.
There’s a part of me that still wants to do this, but there’s another part that just can’t decide what to dream about anymore.
I’m grateful that so many dreams have been realized, but there’s also this strange feeling that they’ve been checked off.
The dreamer and the vestiges of my old work self are still entwined.
Sometimes I miss her.
I miss the chasing. The earning. The feeling of attaining the dream.
But I don’t miss what came with it.
The stress.
The always-on feeling.
The feeling that I was always working toward something that was just slightly out of reach.
So I feel caught between two worlds.
The retired me is happy. For the most part, I’m not stressed at all.
But there’s still that other part of me whispering:
If I’m not chasing a dream, what is there?
And maybe that’s the question I’m sitting with now:
What do I want when I don’t necessarily want more?